User blog:Snowstripe the Fierce/Seventh Incarnate
Note: Sorry about the spacing. I'll fix it later. Clouds burst open, setting free millions of small droplets of precious, life-giving water upon the earth. The dull ground evidently needed the rain, although not all life needed it. In some places, the water would collect in pools, damaging what little homes could be found, and with every drop, injuring the chances of survival of every person living in the wastelands south of any civilization. From the safety of the warm indoors, a figure peered out his chamber window, watching the rain stream down the glass and soak the metal frame of his balcony. The clouds moved nary an inch, releasing drop after drop after drop. He picked up a glass of water from a small table, with pitcher and ice on a tray. He sipped it, raising his eyebrow when thunder shook the ground. The man stared out the window, watching the water roll down the window, form droplets, and disappear. It’s as if it was in a race to reach the ground before anyone else, he thought. Pointless. It’ll just be absorbed by what little life there’s to live down there, and no one will ever see it again. Of course, rain water doesn’t naturally contemplate the pointlessness of its brief time out of cloud and earth. Otherwise, it would simply choose to stay on your windowsill, and never touch the ground until it finally found its answer. But Lord Gabriel Piéton wasn’t in the mood to be debunked by a drop of water. He’d rather distract himself with the outdoors he hadn’t felt in decades from the truth that had been haunting him since late last night: he was going to be replaced. Day after day, his fellow Lords and Ladies were being captured and executed by those north of the Border. Just this last week, his good friends Lord and Lady Panthos had been captured. This would make him, by default, the new ruler of his friend’s lorddom. While most Lords and Ladies wouldn’t mind such a change, Lord Gabriel did. He was a young Lord, only forty. He had inherited the position from his maternal grandfather, although he was nothing like the worn and battle-scarred warrior his grandfather was. He had made plenty of mistakes, and was responsible for many deaths of many people. With a friend’s land now under his influence, more pressure would be placed on his shoulders, causing him to make more tactical errors, which would lead to his eventual dischargement from the Patriciate. It was a vicious circle, doomed to be repeated, until the Lords, and those who fought alongside them, had all but vanished from history. He was just beginning to form comparisons between the condensation on his glass and the raindrops on his window when a familiar dinging sound pierced the inner workings of his mind. It was his door. “Who is it?” he asked the chime. A vaguely feminine electronic voice answered. “Morgan Faramond. Deputy Sentinel of Quadrant Two, in…” “I know who he is, Bianca. Let him speak.” A few moments of whirring, then a click. Morgan’s voice broke the silence. “Grace. A messenger from San Miguel has arrived. He has news from north of Hampton, as well as north of the Border. The news is urgent.” Lord Piéton sighed. It always is. He opened the door, surprising Morgan, who stumbled backward. He couldn’t care less. Boredom and worry had been dominating his day, and the possibility of some excitement was all he could ask for. Descending the spiraling granite staircase, he called Bianca. “Where’s the messenger? Which room?” he asked. “Fourth Lounge, Quadrant One.” it replied. “Thank you.” “Should I order for tea?” “I suppose. Any will do.” he sighed. In reality, he didn’t want tea of any sort. In fact, the last thing he wanted at this moment was food or drink. All he wanted to do was hear the news, impolitely dismiss the messenger, storm back up the stairs, and continue thinking about the nature of rain. Once he had reached the lounge, the messenger was still there, soiling the cushions, in his wet cloak, with mud tracks leading up to his very location. Bother. This man can’t even clean his shoes, much less tell me the happenings north of the Border. “Your Grace.” he said, rising up, revealing a mud-streaked face. Lord Piéton’s disappointment had now reached an all-time low. Sparing the pleasantries, he jumped right into the conversation. “Where’s the emissary? I thought your contingent provided them.” “I am the emissary, your Grace.” The Lord was evidently surprised, although he tried not to show it. “Emissary?...” “Malachi, your Grace. Malachi Owens.” “Very well, then. Then please, enlighten me, Malachi.” “Thank you, your Grace. I’ll begin with news from north of Hampton. The Republic of Saret has infringed the Border, invading His Grace Panthos’ lorddom. They have conquered the vast majority of it. I have come here to request that you send forces there, so that in the very least, we can maintain what hasn’t already been lost.” “I’ll do it when I have finished dealing with the other lot of problems in my own domain.” Piéton replied, with far less respect than was due. “On a similar, but bleaker subject, I have news from within the Border. Lord and Lady Panthos were executed on Thursday. Our agents on the inside confirmed our fears after hearing of it on public broadcast. I am sorry for your loss. I am aware that you were close friends with the both of them, and closer still to His Grace.” Malachi continued droning on about a minor alteration to Public Regulation in the Republic, and a myriad of other issues, but by this point, Gabriel was too angry and frustrated that he had stopped listening. It was only until a single utterance, just two words, had been spoken that he continued listening. The Orahim. For six decades, these celestial guardians had joined forces with the Free Peoples, guiding and leading them in their fight for freedom; yet, for reasons unknown, they had ceased to interact. Some said they had abandoned the cause, for fear of destruction and failure. Others would say that they stepped away from the conflict, and sadistically watched the world burn. And others still would say that they just weren’t powerful enough, or didn’t have the authority to be involved anymore. But after nearly a decade of silence, just hearing that they still care is all you need. “Their message goes as follows:” Malachi said, taking out a crumpled piece of paper. “Free Peoples of Earth, We thank you for continuing to fight for the cause, even in our absence. We understand your fears, for we fear just as you do. You have seen us as lights in the skies, as beings of truth and justice, and even as one of you. In all these incarnations, we have helped you. For our benefit, or for yours, we have helped you. Now, we ask that you would help us. Just as your revolution is powerless without all its parts, we are powerless without all of our parts. One of our number, the seventh, is missing. They have not uncovered the truth about themselves, making their location nigh impossible to find. Although they must find the truth about themselves, and who we are, alone, they require your help in finding us again. Please help us, for both our sakes. Thank you.” Piéton was astonished. A lost Orahim? Ridiculous. If they haven’t found them, then how could we? We scarcely know what the Orahim are, much less how to find one. Malachi shoved the paper back into his pocket. “Is that all?” Gabriel asked. “That is all, your Grace.” “Well, I suppose I have some business to attend to. Thank you, Malachi. You have given me much-needed information. Feel free to help yourself to anything here.” “Thank you, your Grace, but I must be leaving now. San Miguel only have one emissary, and he’s a load of work to do.” the messenger said, rising up from the cushions, and kissing the Lord’s hand. He then left the lounge, with Piéton following soon after. The Lord stood at the bottom of the staircase, waiting until he heard the doors of his tower close behind Malachi. Once he heard the familiar whirring and meshing together of the iron bars, locking the door, he darted back up the stairs, and into his office. Thus, a member of the Patriciate began his work for the day, and a San Miguel emissary continued his own. Never mind the forgotten tea. Category:Blog posts